In Another Life
by jessewrites
Summary: AU, Future!fic. In 1832 Paris, La Revoluciòn was doomed to failure, but perhaps in another life, Revolution has a chance.


Title: In Another Life

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG, vague violence refs

Warning: vague violence, AU, future!fic

Disclaimer: Copyright has expired on _Les Miserables_, but still, this isn't mine

Summary: In Another Life, maybe Revolution has a chance

Note: Primarily Musical based, with small knowledge of the book, not that either matters just a whole lot.

Atop a barricade in Paris, a young man waved a red flag, knowing full well those were his last moments. The year was 1832, and Enjolras knew he could not win. As the bullets tore through his chest, he also knew the barricades would be remembered, and perhaps someday the Republic would be born.

In another life: Marcus—Marc to his friends, and there are few enough of those—walked down the street, carrying his schoolbooks. A shout up the street drew his attention, and a toss of his blonde hair cleared his line of vision to see the young boy pelting up the sidewalk towards him, pursued by two men.

The grimy-faced boy was clearly a street urchin, and the half-loaf of bread clutched in one hand was reason enough for the men to be chasing him.

Marc frowned and trod carefully on his shoelace. A few moments later, he trod on the now-untied shoelace a second time, losing his balance, dropping his books, and stumbling gracelessly into the two men into whose way his trip accidentally carried him. Marc knocked all three of them in a heap, wincing as his head bounced off the pavement.

By the time he had stammered apologies, been helped up, ascertained that the knock on the head was not serious, and picked up all his books, the boy was long gone, and his pursuers grudgingly returned to their stall, Marc's third or fourth earnest apology ringing after them.

Wiping the last bit of blood off his head, Marc continued on his way, settling his glasses more firmly on his nose.

"Pretty slick, Marc," another young man murmured, falling in beside him.

Marc glanced at his friend. "I don't know what you're talking about, John. That was one of the most graceless things I've ever done."

John smirked. "Should tie your shoe, Marc." He ran his fingers briefly through his messy brown hair, winking at his friend from behind the frames of his own glasses, which unlike Marc, he actually needed to see. "I've got to run for Biochem, I just wanted to tell you—nice."

Marc smiled. He paused at the nearest post box, setting his books down on top of it before kneeling to retie his shoe. As he knelt there, a dirty pant leg above ratty sneakers came into his vision. Marc tipped his face up, looking into the narrowed eyes of the street kid with whose chase he has interfered.

"What'd you do that for?" the boy demanded.

"What, tie my shoe?" Marc asked.

"Stop those guys. _I saw you._ You tripped on purpose." The boy looked affronted.

Marc raised an eyebrow. "I tripped," he replied. "I'm Marc."

"Gavin," the boy responded. "You didn't need to do that. I was gonna get away."

Marc didn't respond for a few moment, taking in the grubby boy taking two skipping strides for every one of his own. Gavin was probably not quite twelve, but the bright intelligence in his eyes spoke of a keen mind, and the pinched gauntness of his entire frame said he had probably been on the streets for years. "You thirsty?" he asked.

"What?"

"You thirsty? I'm stopping in there," he pointed at the next café, "For lunch. If you want something to drink you can sit with me."

"You aren't going to try to feed me?" Gavin asked suspiciously. Clearly, charity was not something he wanted or felt he needed.

"I asked if you were _thirsty_." Marc shrugged. "I don't care. It's up to you. But I'm hungry, and a loaf of bread is a lot to eat without water."

"Okay."

With the boy beside him, Marc walked into the café and ordered his lunch. "And a water for the boy," he told the waiter. For a moment, he thought the waiter would refuse, as the man took in Gavin's dirty appearance, but Marc had ordered a full meal and a soda, so the man could hardly refuse a paying customer a glass of tap water.

The waiter nodded and moved off.

"What do you study?" Gavin asked, picking up one of Marc's textbooks and flipping through it casually.

"Law," Marc answered, reaching out and flipping the book over so Gavin was looking at it right-side-up. "I take it you're not in school."

Gavin shrugged. "What for?"

Marc tilted his head, neither acknowledgement nor disagreement.

Before Gavin could make any reply, from across the café, a voice called, "Marc!"

Marc looked up, though he knew the voice. "Jehan!"

Jehan Prouvaire was French and seldom allowed to forget this fact. His real name was Jean, but after every teacher in high school called him 'Gene' on the first day, he had taken to asking to be called Jehan. He was actually one of the older of Marc's friends, but his scattered thought process and constantly mussed appearance, coupled with an endearing naïveté and hopeless romanticism, made the group treat him as the youngest. He did not seem to mind the constant mothering.

Marc grinned at his friend. Jehan was wearing a garish orange polo and a purple and orange plaid scarf. His messenger bag kept catching on tables as he crossed the café, apologising profusely to those he hit. "Afternoon, Jehan. How was lecture?"

"No idea," Jehan answered, dropping into a vacant chair at the table. "Didn't hear a word Glanville said. Got caught by inspir—wow, that is an exceptionally dirty child. Where'd you find him, Marc?"

Gavin looked Jehan up and down, appearing nonplussed by this description of him. "That is an exceptionally ugly shirt," he responded. "I'm Gavin."

"Jehan," Jehan answered. "It was a gift from my mother," he added loftily.

Marc quirked an eyebrow. "I'm sure John will tell you all about it, but I tripped and fell into the fellows who were chasing Gavin."

"That was awfully kind of you."

"Forgetting to tie my shoe?"

Jehan met his eyes. "Yeah," he answered blithely after a moment.

"And Gavin agreed to sit with me while I eat."

Jehan grinned good-naturedly. "Good of him. He learning law too?" Jehan asked, nodding at the law textbook still open on the table before Gavin.

Gavin shook his head. "Looks stuffy. What do you study?"

"Literature."

Gavin raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed.

"Stories," Marc stage-whispered to him. "Written down."

Jehan elbowed him. "_Great_ stories, I'll have you know!"

Gavin snorted, amused by their antics.

Jehan opened his mouth like he was going to say something, and then jerked as if electrocuted. He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and grabbed a notebook from his messenger bag and started writing, tongue poking out.

Marc shook his head. "We've lost him now," he told Gavin.

Gavin watched Jehan writing with interest.

Suddenly Jehan raised his head. "Oh, that reminds me, are we still on for toni-" he cut off with a yelp when Marc's shoe connected solidly with his shin.

Marc gave him a severe look, reminding his friend they were in public.

Jehan's eyes widened. "What happened to your head?"

Marc blinked. As subject changes went, it was abrupt, and should have been awkward and even more obvious than Marc kicking Jehan in the shin, but it was very Jehan to change so abruptly and so drastically, so Marc doubted anyone had noticed. "Hit it on the sidewalk when I tripped."

"Should let Alex or John look at you."

"John's in class. Haven't seen Alex yet today."

"He's right there," Jehan said, pointing over Marc's shoulder to the door of the café. "Alex! Marc hit his head!"

Alex crossed over. "You what?"

Marc sighed. "I tripped. Bounced my head off the pavement. I'm fine."

"You're bleeding," Alex said. He stood behind Marc, so he could tilt the other boy's head back against his chest to prod the sluggishly bleeding scrape on Marc's hairline.

"It had stopped," Marc answered. "And I'm fine. Doesn't even really hurt anymore."

"Dizziness, disorientation?"

"Not even right after I hit it. I _do_ know the signs of a concussion."

Jehan handed Alex a napkin.

Alex shook his head. "And get paper in that scrape, no thanks." Out of his bag, he produced a gauze pad. "Be still," he told Marc, putting pressure on the scrape. "How did you trip? You're one of the most coordinated people I know."

"He did it on purpose," Gavin interjected before Marc could explain about his untied shoelace.

"You what? And hello, I'm Alex."

"Gavin. And he tripped on some guys who were chasing me."

"That was silly of him," A new voice joined. A blonde-haired, bright-eyed young man, who was in fact the youngest of Marc's group of friends but seemed often one of the oldest. He countered Jehan in almost every way, in fact, being well-kept, steady, and streetwise. "Bet you had it handled."

"You know him, Jake?" Marc asked in surprise.

"Wait, this is _your_ Marc?" Gavin demanded in almost the same moment.

Jake smiled fondly. "I know him. He keeps track of most of the street kids."

"What do you mean, 'His Marc'," Jehan inquired of the youngest of the small gathering.

Gavin was still looking at Jake.

"Yes, Gav, this is the Marc I was telling you about."

This caused Marc to squirm out of Alex's hold, putting his own hand against the gauze pad to keep it in place. He pinned Jake with a glare over the rims of his glasses. There was only one thing Jake might have been telling Gavin about him, and if word got out…

"I won't tell," the boy said fiercely. "I want to help."

"I wouldn't have said if I wasn't sure, Marc," Jake added.

Marc held Jake's gaze for a moment, then nodded, tipping his head so he was hiding behind his lenses again. "Bring him tonight," he told Jake in an undertone.

Jake nodded. "Will do." He grabbed a chair from the next table over and sitting on it backwards, straddling the seat.

"Seen the others today?" Alex asked, taking the fourth chair at the table.

"Saw John on my way back from class," Marc murmured.

"I saw Rene earlier. He was chatting up some girl. And I'm fairly certain we'll find Rafe at Musain, " which was a local pub, the one frequented by the group.

"True enough," Marc said darkly.

"Anyone seen Eagle?" Alex asked. His real name was Aquila, gifted by a well-to-do father with a flair for the over-dramatic, but he hated his name, and went by Eagle instead, a touch of defiance against his traditional father who hated in turn the 'commonness' of his chosen nickname.

"Not since Wednesday," Marc admitted.

"Me either," Jake said.

"He'll be there tonight," Jehan pointed out. "You know he wouldn't miss it."

"As will we all," Marc said, tipping his glass in silent salute. "I have a paper to write before this evening, so I better run. See you tonight guys. Gavin, it was good to meet you. I'm sure I'll see you around."

His friends called their farewells as Marc gathered his books and left, preparations for the coming night and not the paper he ought to have been writing rolling around in his mind.

That night in the seedy backroom of a pub—not the Musain, for the safety of the students in the gathering, who frequented Musain—no one would have recognised Marc in the young man everyone present called Marcellus—they all had aliases here. He wore jeans rather than slacks, a white button-down instead of a sweater, and his blonde hair was tied back instead of being allowed to fall around his face. He taken off his glasses since he did not need them anyway—it was all part of the disguise; indeed, Marcellus was more his true persona than quiet, schoolboy Marc—and exchanged his shoes for boots.

"Apollo!" an extraordinarily drunk young man greeted, flinging an arm about his shoulders.

"Pylades," he greeted stiffly, ducking out from under Rafe's arm. It was not that he disliked Rafe as a person, it was more that he disliked his drinking and his cynicism, without which Rafe would not be the person he was. So maybe he did dislike Rafe as a person. It was hard to tell. He just wished Rafe would take the opportunities he had been gifted with, opportunities most would never have, rather than drinking them away.

His greatest concern, though, was that Rafe would call him Apollo—which was an extraordinarily annoying nickname anyway—outside of these meetings and get them all caught. And given how drunk Rafe was every time Marc saw him, it was a possibility.

Before Rafe could make any reply to his stiff greeting, another man called Marc's name. Marc nodded to Rafe and crossed to the group demanding his attention. These were people Marc did not know out in the real world, but they were solid supporters here in secret.

"Good news," one of them said. "Another shipment of carbines. Two hundred."

Marc nodded, taking in the information, adding it to his mental tally. "Thanks." He continued around the room, taking information about munitions, explosives, and money. Finally, he found Jake hanging around the edges of the room.

"Aequitas," Marc murmured in greeting.

Jake smiled. When he had first met the group, he had introduced himself as Jake, Rene had asked, "Jake what?" and Jake had answered with "Just Jake." At first, calling him Just-Jake had been purely a joke from this, but as they talked, they realised Jake had as strong a sense of right as Marc, and Just-Jake had taken on a new meaning. "Marcellus."

"What's the news of the people?" Jake was Marc's link with the downtrodden. The young man was the only one of their group of friends not a student at the university. He was an orphan, and had been a street kid like Gavin. Now he made his living as an artist, fairly well known in well-to-do circles of the city, and managed to keep himself fed, housed and semi-decently clothed. He remained, though, connected to his former companions on the streets. Marc considered him a barometer for the will of the people en masse, and appreciated him as such.

"The pamphlets have been spreading," Jake said. "Quicker since the police tried to take them all. Still seem a bit resigned, but we're getting through."

That was one of Marc's biggest frustrations, that the people were so resigned to their suffering. They didn't strive to better themselves, and fought those trying to help because they did not believe it could get better. They only complained about how difficult life was.

John came over and touched Marc's shoulder. "Can we talk?"

Marc excused himself from Jake and followed his friend into a quiet corner. "What is it?"

"Every message I've taken has been arms and munitions. Are we serious about this?"

Marc raised his eyebrows. "About what?"

"Are we using violence to get what we want?" John ran his hands through his hair. "Mar-cellus, this could be a bloodbath."

"I know," Marc said softly. "But there's no other way. They aren't going to listen. They aren't going to stop. We have to make them see."

"And if this turns into some Reign of Terror?" They all knew their history, knew that not one revolution except the American Revolution has turned out to be anything except a bloodletting in hundreds of years.

Marc bit his lip. "We have to take that chance. Things are too bad here not to risk it."

"That's worse."

Marc shook his head. "We just can't let it go that far."

John sighed. "If anyone can stop these people, it's you," he admitted.

"Look," Marc said. "We're nowhere near ready, anyway. It's not like there isn't time for them to get our point peacefully. We've been leaving pamphlets around for weeks. And Aequitas' graffiti is making an effect. They're starting to realise there are parties who will fight for this."

"We only have till they manage to quiet Lamarck," John said quietly, "And you and I both know it's only a matter of time. If he weren't a war hero, he'd be dead already, but they'll find a way to accuse him of treason, or he'll vanish." John shook his head. "And then all hell breaks loose."

Marc bit his lip. "I hope I have one more meeting. I think I can get through to them."

"Our people will follow you if they agree or not. It's not our group that worries me. You say no killing, no one in this room is going to kill. It's the people, _Le Abaissé _I worry about. One can only be trod on so long before the desire to tread yourself overwrites the desire to get out from under the boot."

"I know," Marc said softly.

"Marcellus, it's time!" Rene called, crossing over. He slapped John on the shoulder and hugged Marc, nudging him towards the centre of the room.

Marc squeezed John's shoulder briefly before letting Rene man-handle him to the open area where everyone expected him to speak.

In the centre of the dingy backroom, under the only completely working light, Marc took a moment to take in the room at large, meeting eyes and gauging characters. These were his people, whether he wanted them or no. When he and John and Rene had started this crusade, he had never dreamed that it would grow so large, or that they—especially John and Rene—would follow _him_ so totally, would become so totally _his_ people. Even Rafe was his, even Jake's grubby street friends, who snarled at the other privileged students, even Gavin's street urchins, all his people because if they were not his, they were no one's, were no one.

"Times are changing," he said, and the slight murmur that had continued after he had taken his place died. "The people are rising and this can no longer afford to be the game of rich kids." He spoke over the angry murmur. "It has become a matter of blood and anger, we have to make a choice. We _will_ see the rising of a new dawn." He waited out the low rumble of a suppressed cheer. "But there's a price. There's always a price. A price too often paid in blood."

"Pay it in their blood!" Someone yelled. Not one of his friends, Marc noted, pleased.

"No!" Marc bellowed over the thunderous cheer this produced. "No!" His vehemence silenced the crowd, edging dangerously towards becoming a mob. "No. Haven't we seen enough death? Isn't our complaint with them that they allow people to starve to death in the gutter, than they allow people to kill each other for bread, that they count their own lives above others? How can we claim to be better when we would do the same? We will fight, we will kill them as we must, but there will be no indiscriminate killing! This will _not_ be another Reign of Terror!" Marc stared hard at each of them, finding and pinning the leaders of each faction with his gaze, one at a time, silent until each had broken his gaze, cowed. "We have armed ourselves and the people knowing we must fight, and fight we will, I've no doubt. The National Guard is not going to let us go by, but we are not murderers, and we will not treat them as they treat us."

"Hear here!" Jehan cried. John and several others echoed him.

Marc nodded, grateful. "That established, have we the carbines we need?"

People began shouting affirmatives, shouting information, but Marc could hear a voice above the din.

Suddenly, Gavin managed to make himself heard. "LISTEN to me!"

"Quiet," Rafe bellowed, and room fell silent.

Marc looked at Gavin.

The boy was ashen beneath the dirt, breathless, clearly having run the whole way. "Lamarck is dead."

Marc felt like he had been punched. Not enough time, he thought desperately. He needed more time to keep this from becoming a bloodbath. Everyone was looking at him. "Gavin, how fast is the news spreading?"

"Like fire," the boy gasped, still panting. "It's all over the slums. People are already starting to riot."

Son of a bitch, Marc thought. Gavin's words had set off a chain reaction. People were running everywhere, shouting. Marc bit his lip, hesitating one more moment, then let go all his worries. "Listen!" he bellowed, leaping onto a chair. "It's time. It's sooner than we expected, but we have to make a move." Marc looked for his friends, his generals. The time for aliases was past. "Jake, get the people who are willing to the Square. Gavin, help him."

Jake nodded and he and Gavin hurried for the door.

"We need to know where they are, their movements. I wouldn't order anyone, but if someone is willing…"

"I'll go," an older man offered. "I've served in the army, I know their ways."

"My thanks," Marc said as the man headed out the door. "Rene, organise the effort to get the weapons to the Square."

Rene beckoned the other groups, mostly broken down by area, calling them to him and leading them out the door. That left a few scattered men Marc did not know well, John, Alex, Jehan, Eagle, and Rafe. "John, Alex, you're as close to medics as we've got. Whatever you need, get it, and get it fast. Who has the treasury?"

"That's me," one of the men volunteered.

"Great," Marc said. "Go with them."

That left Marc standing on a chair, looking at several men, Eagle, and Rafe, who was looking sadly at the half-drunk bottle of wine beside him.

"Nothing for me, great Apollo?" Rafe asked.

Marc stared at him a moment. He shook his head. "Get to the square," he barked at the men just standing there. "And get started building something so we have cover. Eagle, you're in charge of that."

"On it, Marc," Eagle said, saluting facetiously and leading the remaining men out.

"Come on, Marc," Rafe said. "Surely you have something for me to do?"

"You don't even believe in this," Marc told him. "What do you care? Stay here and drink." And don't get killed, Marc's mind added, though he would never say it.

"I believe in you," Rafe answered.

Marc stared at him. "Fine. You can help with the barricade." They left together, Rafe not weaving nearly enough for how much Marc thought he had drunk that night. Marc could only wonder how many people would die tonight.

Marc took in the Square. Eagle and Rafe had strung a series of solid barriers the men could use as cover, some as half as tall again as a man, some barely waist high, across the middle of the Square. Someone had hung a red flag from the top of the central and tallest barricade. Men moved everywhere, carrying guns, munitions, and scraps of metal and wood for the barricades. Rene was overseeing a group of men passing carbines and clips to the people gathered around. Jake and Gavin were arguing with a group of boys.

Marc crossed over, realising as he did that in fact, Gavin and a group of boys were arguing with Jake.

"We want to help!" Gavin snapped.

"You're too young!"

"The young have suffered under the regime as much as the rest," Marc said. "Let them stay." The boys cheered, but Marc said fiercely, "Listen!" When they quieted, he ordered, "One of you stays with each of our medics, Alex and John, at all times. One of you with Rene. The rest of you will stay at specific parts of the barricade, Jake will set you up at your places. You'll be errand runners, and nothing more. I won't have you armed till it's apparent we need you to be so. Gavin, you're with me."

Jake nodded his agreement, and the boys murmured in acquiescence. Gavin fell in step beside him as he walked away, watching his men begin to take their places.

"Marius!" He yelled, recognising a familiar figure. As the other young man jogged towards him, Marc frowned. Marius had not been at a meeting in days. That he showed up now was strange. Half the time, they were not even sure Marius even agreed with them. "Where have you been?"

"I met a girl," Marius said softly.

"Pontmercy," Marc snapped. "There isn't time for this!"

"She's leaving," Marius answered, sounding vaguely despondent. "I'm here to help."

Marc raised an eyebrow. "If you're here to die, you're in the wrong place."

"I'm not," Marius protested. "I'm here to help!"

Marc clapped his shoulder. "Then we're glad you're here. Get a gun from Rene and find a place. I think Rafe's organising the defences." And he was, Marc noted distantly, watching Rafe point a group of people to another barricade.

The crush seemed to have passed, and Marc watched as people began to settle at the places assigned to them. There were more than he expected, but if they had any hope, the city would have to rise. He bounded up on the central barricade, under the flag. A hush fell. "Here we are then!" He called. "And we will hold this place until we are victorious! Let us pledge ourselves to each other and to this cause! Let them come, we will fight!"

Marc's people cheered, shouting their own additions. He heard Jake's voice, pledging to be where the fighting was thickest, and Rafe, proclaiming something crude. He smiled and stepped back down.

After a moment, he spotted his spy hurrying toward him. He lifted his chin, waiting.

"They're coming, in two groups, trying to surround us. Hit us from the front with a token force, and then while our eyes are turned front, the real force hits from the back, wipes us out."

Marc nodded slowly, taking this information in. It did not quite add up, since the old Capitol, abandoned now, was at their backs, but he did not know the building; there may have been away around or through it.

"Liar!" Gavin snarled, scowling at the man.

Marc, and Rene and Jake, who had just come up, looked in surprise at the boy.

"He's a police spy," Gavin accused, pointing fiercely at the man. "Just last week, he nearly had me for stealing."

Marc stared at the man, frowning. He could not understand what would motivate someone to do such a thing. "Well done, Gavin," Marc said. "Rene, tie him to the statue," he ordered, nodding at the statue of Victory in the centre of the Square. "We'll shoot him if it looks like the barricade's going to be taken."

"Why not now?" Rafe asked. A murmur of approval followed.

Marc had not realised so many people had come over. "Better to save our ammunition," he answered. "We'll need it."

"They're coming!" A man from the front yelled.

"Places!" Marc bellowed.

The tinny voice of a man with a megaphone rang over the square. "Rebels! Listen to this! No one is coming to help you, so give up your guns peacefully or die."

"Fire," Marc called, "Let them figure out our response themselves!"

The report of many weapons discharged at once was loud.

A laser burned past Marc's ear, leaving a char mark in the wood beside him. Marc jerked, losing his balance. Then he was laying on his back, staring up at the sniper on the roof of the old capitol, waiting to die.

The man nearest him took one shot, and the sniper fell from the roof. He offered his hand to Marc, helping him up.

"Thanks," Marc said, a touch breathless, as his people cheered at their first victory. The soldiers were pulling back. "If there's anything I can do, when this is done," he let the statement hang.

"There's something you can do now, actually."

"Name it," Marc said. "If it's in my power, it's yours."

"The spy."

Marc looked up, surprised, into the older man's eyes. "He's yours," Marc answered, feeling compelled. John would have said no, would have wanted Marc to say no. It was senseless killing, and yet, there was something in the man's eyes that told Marc it was okay. "Wait," he called. "What's your name?"

"Valjean."

"I'm Marc."

The old man nodded slowly, as if Marc's name was a weighty matter and required much consideration. Then he headed off to the statue.

Marc turned back to his people. "Gavin, go find Alex and John, bring me a count of dead and injured."

Gavin nodded and scurried off.

Night was falling, Marc knew. They would not attack again in the dusk, with the sun setting behind the defenders. They would wait till morning, when the rising sun was in their eyes, and attack them when they were tired, hungry, and at a tactical disadvantage. "Rene," he called to his friend, his second, only feet away behind the same barricade. "Set a watch. And spread the word for everyone to get some rest while we can. They won't attack again."

Rene nodded, sending the boy with him one direction and heading the other himself.

Marc sighed.

"Shouldn't you be resting, then?" Gavin asked from beside him.

Marc jumped. He had not noticed the boy come up beside him. "I'll rest later," he lied. "What's the news?"

"No dead," Gavin announced. "Two wounded."

Marc nodded. Good news, then. "Very good. Bed down, Gavin. I'll be back in a while to rest myself."

Gavin nodded, curling easily up in the shadow of the barricade and letting his eyes slide closed.

Marc wandered for a while, listening to the men talking. His friends were gathered behind the central barricade, even Alex and John, whose patients were sleeping peacefully. Marc eventually joined them, and listened from the background as they reminisced.

"A toast," Jake offered quietly. "To days gone by."

"To the girls we loved," Jehan added.

"To us," Alex agreed.

Rafe snorted quietly. "To times gone by," he repeated, but softly. The others did not seem to hear. "Can it be that you're afraid to die?" he asked rhetorically, still softly. "Now you're beginning to see that maybe you've lived a lie, that maybe dying means nothing at all."

Marc put a hand on his shoulder, and their eyes met.

Rafe quieted, leaning for a moment into Marc's touch.

Marc tightened his grip briefly and then released him, but stayed within touching distance until one by one, his friends dropped off to sleep. Marc watched them for a while, eyes soft, and then slipped quietly away, unable to rest until he knew everything was settled.

A ways away, he found Marius, passed out asleep, the old man who had saved his life hovering nearby. He seemed to be praying. Marc sat beside him. When Valjean looked at him, Marc asked, "What does he mean to you?"

"My daughter loves him," Valjean admitted softly.

"He said he'd met a girl," Marc affirmed.

"I don't know if I'm here to save him or kill him."

"He came here to die."

"What for?"

"His lady is leaving him," Marc said quietly, recognising the irony with a slight tilt of his head.

Valjean looked away. "Thank you," he said. Then he got up and started away.

Marc shrugged and let him go.

Marc walked the barricades that night, talking quietly when he found people awake, watching others sleep. The hours passed slowly, but pass they did, and finally, as the first lights of a false dawn edged over the horizon, Marc returned to his post, greeting the sentry at the top quietly, before settling beside Gavin to clean his carbine.

Eventually, Marc's people started stirring. Rene and the boy with him sat across from him first, then John and Alex joined him. Jehan wandered over a little while later, his hands ink-stained and his eyes lined. "Sleep at all, little poet?" Rafe asked as he settled beside Marc.

"A bit," Jehan answered. "It's a wonder anyone did."

"Some of us didn't," Rafe answered, looking pointedly at the heavy circles under Marc's eyes. "And what good to us are you, Apollo, if you fall asleep on the job?"

Marc smiled wanly. "I doubt I'll be able to sleep with all the noise Rene will be making."

"I'll be making!" Rene protested, smirking.

Gavin sat up. "You do seem to make more noise than the rest of us combined," he pointed out. Rafe ruffled his hair.

"Except Marc," Jehan argued. "He's always bellowing about something."

Rene sighed. "Sun's coming up," he said, voice subdued. "I suppose it's time for me to start making noise."

"Suppose so," Marc agreed, rising. "Gav, head left, start waking people and getting them to their station."

Rene nodded, waking his own helper and sending him to the right.

Marc climbed the barricade to sit beside the sentry. "Hop down," he said gently. "And see if you can get some rest before the shooting starts."

"Yes sir," the man said, climbing down.

Marc took his place behind a bit of wood thrust up, which gave him cover, but still let him be atop the barricade. He looked out, getting the full three-sixty view, seeing his people taking their places and the approaching National Guard.

Gavin's voice, from off to the left, rose in a cry. "Attack!"

"Don't scatter your shots!" Marc bellowed. "Wait till you have a target!" He could hear the shooting on the left, but troops came up in front before he could decide to check on the flank. "Rene!"

Rene bounded up beside him, tossing Marc his carbine before levelling his own at their enemies. Rene was a good shot, a better marksman than most of their friends—Jehan was hopeless, and Jake only acceptable, and while Eagle, Rafe, and Marius were fair shots, as was Marc himself, they were no match for Rene.

A shout of dismay came from further down the line. "Hold here," Marc ordered Rene, and he climbed down quickly. He sprinted down the line, his shots holding the guardsmen back as his people pulled back behind the next barricade.

A lull followed the loss of their far left flank, and Marc called a halt to the sporadic shooting. He crossed back to Rene. "How are we?" he asked in an undertone.

Rene shook his head. "Half the carbines are dead. And we're cut off from our storage since we lost the flank. We're about to be out of power-packs for carbines if we can't get it back."

"And we can't get it back without power-packs," Marc finished, resigned.

"Let me go," Marius offered, touching Marc's shoulder.

Marc looked at him, surprised.

"There are bodies in the street. If I go quietly and stay low, I should be fine. They'll have extra packs in their equipment."

"No," Marc answered. "It's too dangerous."

"It's the same for anyone here," Marius argued.

"Let me go," Valjean offered. "I'm old; I've lived my life."

Marc threw up his hands. "And your daughter?" he demanded.

Valjean blanched, but shook his head. "For her, I'm offering," he countered, shooting a discreet glance at Marius.

"You're too slow!"

Marc whirled. "Gavin, no!" he shouted, knowing instinctively why the boy had shouted.

"Don't you dare!" Rafe cried, lunging after the boy and coming just inches too short to stop him going over the barricade.

Marc and Rafe, side-by-side on the barricade, watched helplessly as Gavin scrambled among the dead.

"Stay low," Marc hissed. "Use the bodies as cover!" God, let them not notice, Marc prayed.

Gavin obeyed, staying low as he could, moving carefully in the morning mist and gun smoke that shrouded him. His lower lip was between his teeth in concentration. He threw himself flat as the sharp hiss of a laser passed him.

Marc's fists clenched on the barricade, absolutely helpless.

Another shot. Gavin threw himself behind another body, searching it one handed while he lay flat.

"You can't doubt the boys guts," Rafe murmured, half-admiring, half-terrified.

Gavin popped up and lobbed his bag over the barricade. Marc caught it, numb as the boy went flat again in a barrage of lasers. "No," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"He's okay!" Rafe cried.

Marc jerked up, watching Gavin break and run, diving over one of the low barricades.

Marc let out the breath he had not realised he was holding and stumbled down off the barricade. "Are you daft?" he demanded, shaking Gavin.

Gavin laughed, squirming free. "It worked!"

"Little hero!" Rafe cried, hugging him.

Marc realised he could not sag in relief as he wanted, but had to command. "Rene, get a force together. Solid men, good marksmen. Small, preferably."

Rene nodded. "Who's to command?"

"I will."

"You're needed," Rene countered. "Here, where the men can see you. We fight for you, Marc."

Marc clenched his fists again. "Take it," he ordered. "And don't get yourself killed. I don't have any generals to spare."

Rene headed out, staying low and carrying the bag of power-packs, and Rafe touched Marc's shoulder briefly. He said nothing, and Marc leaned into his hand briefly just as he had leaned into Marc the night before.

Then Marc forced himself to move, climbing the barricade again, levelling his carbine and waiting.

He did not wait long. Even as Rene was shouting orders and the sounds of shooting echoed from the left flank, the ranks in front opened fire on the rebels with everything they had.

"Down!" Marc bellowed as he flung himself from the barricade. The cannonade shook the structure, mangled it, but did not bring it down completely. Somehow, Rafe and Eagle had made a structure that sturdy in such little time. Marc thanked them in his mind and hoped he would get a chance to do so in person.

Even as Marc leapt to his feet again, carbine raised, something was happening.

The Square and the streets around it were suddenly filled with people. People wielding carbines and pieces of furniture and whatever came to hand. The people had risen and were challenging the National Guard.

Marc looked at the battered barricade and the flag that had fallen from its place to land at his feet. He lifted the banner and bounded up the barricade to stand atop it, waving their flag, the symbol of their freedom, high.

The sound of cheering drowned out even the sound of lasers.


End file.
